


The Desk Job

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - M/M/M, not series two compatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Lestrade finds John and Sherlock varnishing his desk, he goes home for some... gentleman's time in the shower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Desk Job

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [221B Drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/270813) by [moonblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom). 



> Complete PWP, no redeeming quality whatsoever. Inspired by one of moonblossom's 221B Drabbles and she was kind enough to let me fic what I think the after show would look like. :) That drabble is here: [221B Drabbles Bewildered](http://archiveofourown.org/works/270813/chapters/684928)
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. If anyone spots a typo, then pop it in along with your comment and I'll see to it. :)

It had been a hell of a day. And as if the six new cases on his desk, two instances of botched evidence handling, and the lovely, lovely dressing down he received from his supervisor weren’t enough, Lestrade also had to walk into his office to find Sherlock and John going at it on his desk. Was nothing sacred anymore?

Sherlock he understood, Sherlock would push any button he could ever find. Push it ‘til it broke. But John? John, the mate he went down the pub with? Who he shouted at the match with? Who never had a harsh word for anyone, not even Anderson when he was being a particularly spectacular tool? Lestrade had a hard time imagining that always pleasant John had trouble following basic social niceties. Then again, Greg didn’t know if was really considered courteous to remember not to have sex over your friend’s desk. Well, he supposed that if some of John’s good behavior had rubbed off on Sherlock, the same had to be true for Sherlock’s bad behavior. They were both adrenaline junkies, the pair of them, and that probably explained it all.

He decided to put it out of his mind and headed for a shower. When the soapy water was making its way over his skin, Greg leaned against the wall and tried to let everything—Sherlock’s pert ass and John’s dirty talk, and all the work crap—slip away. Christ, he needed to relax.

No, he needed a fuck. Nice and slow and deep, with a pair of legs wrapped around his waist so tight, he thought he might suffocate. His marriage wasn’t just on the rocks, it was shipwrecked—hence his brand new one-room flat. She kept the house. And even before everything with them had gone south, the sex wasn’t as regular as it used to be. And today, after the longest dry spell in his adult life, Lestrade had to walk into his office to _that_. Just the memory of Sherlock’s reddened ass, probably smacked raw by John before he plunged into that nice, tight—

Before Greg could stop himself and censor the mental images of John and Sherlock going at it all over his paperwork, his cock let its interest be known. Oh yes, Lestrade might have been married to a woman, but he wasn’t dead. He would have to be completely dead from the waist down not to enjoy a show like that.

Wrapping a soapy hand around his cock, Greg started tugging his cares away. Images of John and Sherlock tangled together on the surface of his desk swam behind his closed lids. Only this time, they’d stripped completely. That slowed them down, but the Baker Street boys just couldn’t resist the feel of skin against skin. And oh look, Lestrade just happened to walk in on them while John had two slick fingers inside of Sherlock.

He could just imagine it: slowly closing the blinds before pulling off his own suit jacket and walking over to them.

With a smirk on his face, John pulled his fingers out of Sherlock and turned to Lestrade. His hands went to Greg’s belt, helping him get naked even faster. From over the top of the desk, Sherlock watched with lazy eyes that somehow still manage to be impatient. He wanted them—both of them—right now, and he wasn’t about to wait one moment longer.

Grabbing one of Lestrade’s wrists, John pulled his hand until it rested on Sherlock’s perfect, perfect ass. “Go ahead,” he smiled. “You first.”

Lestrade licked his lips and let his hand travel down to stroke up Sherlock’s back, and then down his thigh. So soft, yet so hard. Butter cream skin covering lithe muscle. It must be all that running they did, it kept Sherlock toned and tight.

Lube appeared in his hand, put there by a more than helpful John. While Lestrade finished preparing Sherlock and slicked his own cock, John pressed himself to Greg’s side, laying kisses up and down his neck and jaw.

Ugh, he couldn’t wait any longer. Dropping the bottle of lube, Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s hips and lined everything up. Slowly, oh so slowly, he pushed forward into that glorious body. “He feels so good, doesn’t he?” John whispered into his ear.

Before Lestrade could groan out his answer, John caught his ear between his teeth and all he could do was moan. Sherlock, who had been silent all this time (a minor miracle in itself) let out a low hiss of satisfaction. “Yes,” he moaned. “I knew you always wanted me.” Always smug, Sherlock was. But now it was Greg’s turn to shut him up.

“John?” He breathed out. It was about all he could do, what with Sherlock’s tight muscles twitching around him, his skin practically vibrating under his fingers. “Why don’t you give Sherlock something to occupy his mouth?”

The smirk that crossed John’s face was just about the most beautiful, devilish thing Lestrade had ever seen. He leaned in and pressed a hard kiss to Lestrade’s lips. “After this, I’m going to have you,” he mumbled into the kiss.

One sharp slap to his ass and he pulled back, walking around to the other side of the desk and stopping right in front of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock didn’t even need to be told, his mouth just fell open, his tongue coming out to search—no, _beg_ —for John’s cock.

Once he was filled at both ends, everything really began. Moans and groans filled the office, and Lestrade knew that half the Yard probably had their ears pressed to the door. He didn’t care. Let them listen. Hell, let them look—he should’ve left the blinds open and given them a real show.

As his orgasm came closer and closer, he started having trouble holding on. In a minute, he was going to come, probably less. He could feel it coming on, the tight squeeze as his balls drew up, ready to empty into Sherlock’s ass as John shot off in his mouth. Lestrade was so far gone, he barely heard John’s voice trying to call him back.

“Greg,” John whispered. “Greg, open your eyes.” He did. Just as he came, Lestrade opened his eyes wide, and for a second he saw John’s face smiling back at him.

The edges of his vision grayed out for a moment, and then he was back in his shower. Leaning against the cool tiles, his chest heaving and spattered with come.

Embarrassment over fantasizing about two of his closest friends. Confusion over this unexplored corner of his sexuality. Guilt because he’d just wanked to John and Sherlock—his very, _very_ committed friends and colleagues. None of these emotions even entered his mind, because all Lestrade could think was: “That’s the best fucking sex I’ve had in years.”

The End


End file.
